Martin is a Northbridge man, and like all of us north of the river sophisticates, seldom ventures south. Unfortunately circumstances dictated a clandestine trip across the Swan on the weekend. No problem right? Who would notice? Just going to the Windsor Hotel. Surely the banjos and anal raping doesn’t start until Labouchere Rd. Como?

But on leaving the Windsor, Martin found the traditional warning of a pig’s head on the bonnet. A nibbled cooked pig’s head. (Basically for the uninitiated, the southern rurotards were making the point that if Martin crosses the Narrows again, it will be his honey glazed ringhole that will be chewed on.) Never again, says Martin. Never again.